Gifts
by wouldyouliketoseemymask
Summary: For many years, Dr. Jonathan Crane had considered the Christmas holiday to be more of a nuisance than a cause for celebration. Crane/OC, one-shot.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights to "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

**A/N:** I wrote a Christmas story featuring Crane a few years ago, and this year I thought it would be fun to write a short holiday fic including my OC. Teagan James first appears in my story _Intoxicating_; if you have not read it, I would recommend doing so before continuing with this story.

Happy Holidays!

**Gifts**

For many years, Dr. Jonathan Crane had considered the Christmas holiday to be more of a nuisance than a cause for celebration. As a child he had not been permitted to engage in yuletide festivities—Granny Keeny considered such enjoyable traditions as decorating a Christmas tree or exchanging gifts to be a distraction from the day's religious connotations, and the extent of her generosity was to allow Crane to watch _The Greatest Story Ever Told_ every year on Keeny Manor's black and white television set. As he sat in front of the grainy screen and stared blankly at the static-ridden picture unfolding before him, Crane thought of illustrations he had seen in books depicting rosy-cheeked children sitting beneath a bauble-covered tree, surrounded by colorfully-wrapped presents adorned with large bows as their smiling parents looked on at them, father holding a tobacco pipe between his lips and mother carrying a tray of iced cookies.

Lamentably, not a single one of his childhood holidays replicated the warmth and cheer that the drawings contained, and after a time Crane abandoned his foolish daydreams and instead impatiently waited for each December to pass with bitter resolve. Even after beginning a new life in Gotham, he still regarded the yearly winter celebrations as an annoyance—particularly now that he had to contend with frenzied shoppers, an obstacle that he had not encountered in rural Georgia. The blatant materialism disgusted him, from the numerous mindless advertisements littering every corner of the city—BIG SALE! TWENTY PERCENT OFF! THIS WEEKEND ONLY!—to the shameless behavior displayed by greedy parents eager to grab the latest trendy plaything for their disinterested brats.

Perhaps the most offensive demonstration of the Christmas spirit was the misguided attempts of the Arkham Asylum staff to restore a meager amount of normality to the institution by celebrating among their patients; attendants wearing Santa Claus hats handed out soft peppermint sticks along with daily medication (candy canes were not permitted, lest an inventive inmate fashion decide to fashion one into a weapon), _It's A Wonderful Life_ played on a loop in the activity room, and well-behaved patients were allowed to participate in the decorating of the large Christmas tree in the asylum's cafeteria. Crane found the sight of the jaunty ornaments and colorful lights to be almost vulgar in their displacement; it struck him as inappropriate to force such merriment into a place of misery and hopeless pain.

And so for quite some time Crane did his best to avoid the festivities, creating excuses for his absence at staff parties and only uttering the words "Merry Christmas" when the greeting was a necessary (and expected) act of politeness. But after meeting Teagan, he decided that he would give the holiday a chance and try his hand at celebrating—with his own personal edge, of course.

He had put a great deal of thought—more than he wanted to concede to—into Teagan's gift, and as he delicately wrapped the small box he felt a slight twinge of pleasant anticipation; he supposed that it _had_ been a bit fun to select a gift for her, and he was actually looking forward to seeing her reaction.

Of course, he had absolutely no intentions of admitting that—either to her or himself.

He was, however, unable to stop the momentary flicker of a smile from appearing on his lips (quickly suppressing it before she could notice) when she handed him a parcel of his own. He had never received a gift before, and the idea of someone giving him a present solely because they wanted him to enjoy it made him feel the uncomfortable, strange happiness that he sometimes felt when he was around Teagan. It was clear that she had made an effort to cover the present as neatly as possible, even aligning the (rather silly, he thought) gingerbread men printed on the wrapping paper and tying a silky blue ribbon around the box. She appeared anxious as she sat and waited for him to open the gift, nervously biting her lower lip when he began to untie the ribbon and tear into the paper.

When the wrapping lay in a shredded pile at his feet, he lifted the box's lid to see a heavily-worn paperback copy of _The Great Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe_ resting atop a bed of crumpled newspaper, an image of a leering black cat printed across its creased cover. He carefully lifted it from the box to examine it; upon further inspection, he discovered that the volume was quite old rather than simply weathered—the pages had become yellowed with age, and the back cover revealed the publication year to be 1940.

"I saw that you have a few of his collections on your bookshelves," Teagan said, her voice tense with anxiety. "I went to about five thrift shops trying to find an old edition—see, they're sort of rare and...well, I thought it would be a good addition to your collection, but if you don't like—"

"I like it very much," Crane said simply, and treated her to a smile that made her cheeks flush a joyful pink. "Thank you."

She beamed with pride, both relieved and overjoyed—nothing pleased her more than gaining his approval, a quality that he found endearingly attractive and often useful.

"Why don't you open your own present?" Crane suggested, gesturing towards the small gift-wrapped box in her hands. The suggestion was more of a politely-phrased instruction than a proposal, and she responded accordingly (as she always did—another valuable and appealing trait), promptly removing the crisp silver wrapping paper with delicate precision rather than simply ripping it from the box; it was clear that she already prized her new possession without even knowing what it was, and the meticulous fashion that she exercised with its unveiling indicated that would not take even the slightest risk at damaging it.

She gasped softly when she opened the box to reveal a tiny perfume bottle cradled in a nest of tissue paper, the green liquid inside lightly sloshing from side to side as she carefully lifted it from its protective bedding. She ran a trembling finger across the elegant design engraved into the glass, reveling in the sensation of the textured pattern curving around the bottle; a closer look revealed miniscule skulls weaved intricately through carved flourishes, their grins illuminated by the colored fragrance beneath their surface.

She had begun to remove the stopper to sample the perfume's scent when Crane's sudden warning brought a halt to her actions.

"I wouldn't do that," he said ominously, a small smirk on his lips.

"Why?" Teagan asked, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Because that isn't perfume. It's fear toxin."

Her jaw dropped with surprise and Crane could not help but chuckle quietly, delighted with her response.

"I've given you the gift of fear," he said. "You're free to use it however and whenever you wish."

"Oh, _Jonathan_." She brought a hand to her mouth, overcome with emotion as her eyes brimmed with joyful tears. "It's _perfect_. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Can...can I use this tonight? The Gotham City Christmas parade is in a few hours."

He smiled. "Of course. Merry Christmas, Teagan."

"Merry Christmas, Jonathan."


End file.
